There was no Elsie Duff, with head drooping over her knitting, seated in the summer grass on the other side of a singing brook.

Her head was aching on her pillow because I had struck her with that vile lump; and instead of the odour of white clover she was breathing the dregs of the hateful smoke with which I had filled the cottage.

I sat down, cold as it was, on the frozen hillock, and buried my face in my hands.

Then my dream returned upon me.

This was how I sat in my dream when my father had turned me out-of-doors.